Of Closure and Finality
by Lightningwolf325
Summary: Seven years after the war, Harry visits Umbridge in prison. Why? To talk. But perhaps prison doesn't change a person. Is repentance possible for the old toad? What is spite, and what does it truly mean to get what you deserve? Warning: Character death.


**Disclaimer**: I don't own Harry Potter.

Rain shot down from the bleak sky, black storm-clouds milling around the island like the kneazle-cats that would gather around a food bowl at the home of a long-forgotten squib who had once watched over a young boy. Were they human, and had the building that was nestled on the isle been a normal building, they would have been arrested for loitering. But as it was, they were not, and it was not, and thus it was not so.

The building in and of itself was nothing special, save for the extravagant architecture that sent the three-walled structure skyward in a kind of haunting triangle. The walls were of a plain grey stone that had melded together seamlessly and complimented the steely blue of the waves that crashed against the dark rocks below. There was a rhythm to the place, a sort of unearthly melody that came in the roaring of the sea, the whistling of the winds, the pounding of the rain against the stone, and the screams of the inhabitants of the thrilling construction.

They were not tortured, though it was from a past torture that many now screamed. Spectral beings that had once harrowed the ancient hallways, feeding on the happiness and sanity of the occupants, were now gone. They had been forced out after corruption had fallen, taking with it every inhumane idea it had once held sacred.

But they were not gone. The sheer malevolence of their beings had seeped into the stone, binding with the core of the monstrous island and adding to the chilling effect of the cadaverous prison. The gloom was permeating, and the sadness never-ending, while the arctic temperatures remained constant with the icy rain.

It was the same water that pierced through the fabric protecting a cloaked figure. He paid no mind to the fact that he was soaked to the bone in freezing weather, never breaking stride as he strutted through the macabre halls. He had a purpose, and, while not a pleasant one, was imperative to his mental wellbeing. He knew he needed closure—friends had convinced him of that much—and once he had set foot out of the old boat he knew there was no going back.

Seven years, one month, two days, and four hours to the exact moment she had been sentenced. He had been present, along with the rest of the group formerly known as Dumbledore's Army. They had celebrated together after the trial, celebrated that she was finally gone and that no more interference was to be had. They had clung to the celebration, knowing that it could be but a flicker of a candle against the mass of funerals they had attended, against those they still had to attend. But they celebrated nonetheless, and never spared her a thought again.

Neville had talked to her, he knew—his friend had suffered as much as he, and needed the finality of a conversation. She had been as arrogant as ever, but still Neville won. She went to Azkaban a day later.

And now he was there, seven years later, the scars on the back of his hand tingling the closer he drew to the place he knew her cell was. He rounded the corner and stood, facing the bars.

"What is it?" a voice croaked from the shadows. He barely contained a flinch, recognizing still the simpering venom nearly lost in the years of unuse. "Who's there?" He simply stared unblinkingly into the darkness. "What do you want?"

"To talk," he replied quietly, stepping closer. He could see her clearly now, looking extremely out of place in the grey prison uniform that forewent her usual pink. She had lost weight in prison, and had aged as well—skin was sagging from her face, and her iron curls hung limply on her head. He lowered his hood.

"Potter," hissed Dolores Umbridge. A half-hearted smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Dolores," Harry greeted in a measured tone. The name was foreign on his lips; it had always been "Professor", or "Madam", or—most commonly—simply "Umbridge". But no such term could apply here—she was no longer a professor, and he held her in far too low esteem to call her Madam. But Umbridge was too rude; he was determined that, if it could be helped, she would open the hostilities. He would not be called an antagonist or instigator, and he wanted to stay as calm as possible.

"What are you doing here?" she asked with narrowed eyes. They didn't bulge as much as they used to, he noted idly—rather, they were quite sunken from her stint in Azkaban.

"I believe I already told you," he said easily. "I just want to talk."

"Talk, is it?" she asked maniacally. "You want to come rub your freedom in my face? The fact that you won? Do you want to torture me even more than you already have?" Her voice had risen, and became even more strained the louder she got.

Harry returned to silence, observing her once again with his eerie emerald stare. She shifted under his gaze, uncomfortable yet unwilling to break the quiet. Finally, her eyes hardened.

"I taught you when you were a child," she muttered. "You were many things, but you were never a spiteful boy." A blaze erupted in his vibrant orbs.

"Who are you to talk to me about spite?" he asked harshly. She glared up at him. "After everything you did—"

"_I _did? I was trying to help you children—"

"_Help?_" he asked in disbelief. "You tortured us! You abused your power and that's how you ended up here." He couldn't believe the things that were pouring from his mouth, but he found that they were all true. Everything he had unconsciously thought, ever since fifth year…since the war was over…it felt unbelievably good to get it all off his chest.

"I ended up here because of a meddling little boy who didn't know his place!" she shrieked, hoarse voice grating on his ears. He opened his mouth angrily, but a little nudge—one that reminded him an awful lot of Hermione—stopped him. He stared at her intently for a moment.

"All these years," he said softly, almost wonderingly. "All these years and you still hold onto that. Even after I was proven right." He looked at her appraisingly, just as she had to him all those years previous, after his own trial. Then a small flame started in his chest.

"You called me a liar," he murmured. "You called me a fake, a brat, an attention-seeking insane little kid." This time it was his voice that rose with every word. "You tortured me nearly every night. You drove my mentor out of the school and you attacked one of the few adults who actually cared at the time. You threatened me and my friends, you even tried to use an Unforgivable on me! And then you go and prosecute muggleborns. You sent innocent people to Azkaban, with the Dementors there to feed on every little thought and feeling they had left after you were done with them!"

At this point he seemed to notice the volume he had reached and lowered his tone, though the vehemence remained strong. Moving closer to the cell, he grasped one grimy bar with the scars on his right hand showing clearly to the prisoner and slid down so that he was sitting on the balls of his feet, almost leaning through into her domain. He could feel the dirt and slime from years of neglect gathering under his hand as he moved, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"But you got what you deserve, didn't you Dolores?" he breathed. "You're the liar, and you know it. But Tom's dead, along with any chance for the pureblood world you wanted so badly. How does it feel, _Professor?_"

"Get out," she snarled, her grainy voice distorted in hatred and fear. "Leave me to this desolate place—I may have gotten what you think I deserve but I deserve far more than you standing here and rubbing it in my face."

"No," he said, suddenly standing. "No, you didn't get what you deserved. Tell me Dolores, did those muggleborns deserve to be stuck with the Dementors? Did we students deserve to have our hands cut open every night, by someone we were supposed to trust? Or to be whipped at whatever imaginary offense you fancied?

"Did I deserve to have my godfather taken away because you cut off all proper contact with the outside world? You may not have meant it, but it happened. But you deserve far worse than this place for your crimes."

"So what are you going to do? Curse me? Move me to some other prison, just to fulfill your sadistic pleasures? You call me spiteful, Potter, but you just have to look at yourself to see the true definition of the word." She paused, bloodshot eyes observing him in distaste. "Are you going to kill me? What _do_ I deserve, Potter, and how far would you be willing to go to achieve that?"

"You deserve worse than this," he shrugged. "But it's not my place to decide. I wasn't the judge, or the jury, or the executioner. I was simply a witness, and that's all. And you won't have to worry about seeing me again.

"Goodbye, Dolores. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in Azkaban." With that he turned into a brisk stride, shoes slapping against the wet stone. Something fluttered from his pocket.

She reached through the bars of her cell, holding the object in an almost reverent fashion.

The next day, Dolores Umbridge was pronounced dead, killed by her own hand, a pink ribbon fatally tight around her neck.


End file.
